With Apologies to Mister Poe

Late at night I hear their screeching, Feel their evil arms outreaching Like some minister a-preaching In a temple made of light. How my poor ears get to ringing, As a band of angels shrilly singing On some lonely stretch of highway In the night. I think I hear the bells Of a hundred thousand hells. They won't allow me sleep, Nor bless my soul to keep. Oh, how they make me weep As their awful midnight screaming Keeps my fevered brain from dreaming. I toss this way and that, Like a trapped and frightened bat As it scrambles for the door And croaks out: Nevermore!